


You'll never know how nice it seems...

by Metas



Series: T'aint nobody's business if I do [4]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Musical References, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 22:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21417910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metas/pseuds/Metas
Summary: All symptoms point to him having the flu, but he knows that’s not the case; No, this familiar feeling is from hitting the shitty stuff hard enough that you black out and have a shittier outcome.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) & Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: T'aint nobody's business if I do [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542289
Comments: 10
Kudos: 162





	You'll never know how nice it seems...

He’s crawling through the jungle and he’s scared, he’s lost contact with his squad in the last thirty minutes and over the sound of distant gunfire he can only hear the thrum of his heart beating loudly in his ears. The humid scent of rain forest combined with the gun powder and smoke fills his nostrils with every breath, but he’s unsure if any air is actually getting through. He knows he’s lost his resolve, he has no where to hide and no where to go. He’s going to die, he’s sure of it, he doesn’t want to, it’s not fucking fair! In front of him, a patch of ground flips open and a man covered in mud wearing fatigues with a rifle pops up like a fucked up jack in the box, making eye contact with him. Both tense in place, both react lightning fast ready to kill their enemy, it’s life or death and he’s afraid, he wont die yet. The sound of gunfire fills his ears.

Awareness hits him like a brick wall and his senses are assaulted one by one. The first overbearing sensation he can feel is the pain in his head, feeling like his brain’s been through a blender and sloppily scooped back in like a shitty deviled egg; Second, his neck, lower back are stiff, his cheek is numb, pressed against a hard surface and something is itching the junction between his head and ear that stops a moment after he feels it. Third is the thickness of his tongue, like it’s full of fur except he knows it’s not from actually cleaning his fur; he’s tried it once, he was curious about it, so sue him. Lastly, he’s definitely hungry if that soul gnawing sensation in his gut is anything to go by, he’s not sure if he vomited before he passed out but he doesn’t smell anything rank or sour so he’s optimistic in the way only a person who doesn’t give a shit if they did vomit anyways can be

All symptoms point to him having the flu, but he knows that’s not the case; No, this familiar feeling is from hitting the shitty stuff hard enough that you black out and have a shittier outcome. The light of “mid-day” hell irritates his eyes beneath his eye-lids, making his brow crease. He hasn't been out nearly long enough he thinks, it was still morning he was awake last. With a groan, Husk pushes himself up from his slumped position at the part front desk/part bar, turning his neck one way and then the other with audible clicks, easing some of the stiffness that made its home there. He’s still disoriented, eyes opening slightly to blurs in front of him. He easily recognizes the foyer of the hotel even when he cant focus on it, having familiarized it over the past couple months.

He’s also learned to distinguish the more notable figures that would come in and go out of the hall while in a stupor. There’s the loud one in pink and yellow, that one will yell about some sort of happy, hippie-dippie, rainbow shit, reminding him an awful lot of those Disney cartoons princesses with singing animals that he once saw when he was still alive. 

There's the almost as loud but in a different way smaller white and grey blur that’ll threaten him sometimes when he repeats just how much he doesn’t care about the pink and yellow one trying to rope him into any of that happy shit, she’s a lot like that singing animal with the Disney princess, except instead being happy her mood only ever tipped between being mad and being rabid, whenever she wasn't dealing with the princess.

There was the tallest white one who doesn’t know how to keep to himself. Husk didn't have to rely on his impressive deductive abilities for that one, the spider often shoved himself so close to his face his vision cleared so he’d be able to see the suggestive look crossing the ex-porn star’s visage when ever they were in the same room, propositioning him until he got pulled away by something else or bored.

There was the small hyperactive shock of red, She was harder to keep track of when she was around, so much so he stopped trying after a couple days. He almost got sick trying to track her movement while mostly sober. He’d decided that it was better just to not even bother since she doesn't bother him unless necessary. At this point she’s probably his favorite person in the hotel which isn’t too hard to do, everyone else is just real bad at being decent.

The last one though is probably his least favorite, as well as the easiest to distinguish of the bunch.

He’ll usually hear the Radio Demon before he sees him.

His ears twitch as the high pitch buzz he wasn’t aware of sounding off in his ears gives way to the sound of a mellow brass ensemble and steady drum beat. Still squinting, Husk’s eyes search his surroundings, landing on a thin red blur he hadn’t noticed at the end of the bar/desk. 

“Awake at last my friend! How was your cat nap?”

He’s had time over their long acquaintanceship to get used to the red demon’s odd behavior of emitting music and speaking at the same time, but even now an odd discomfort over the ability niggled him to this day. The words register in his mind and Husk bares his teeth at little at the other’s words; Not that he’d admit it but he’s still a little sensitive about being an over grown cat with wings, he’s sure this form is a punishment in of itself making him look like a complete fool.

“The hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off somewhere terrorizing any one else, ya Looney Tunes bastard?”

The blur in his eyes begin to clear and he can see see Alastor a little better now, see the ever present smile of the other, unphased by his insult. The smiling man simply motions in front of him at the tumbler of amber liquid and a bottle next to it that’s been sitting there the whole time.

“Why I was just partaking in a refreshment! I noticed you were indisposed of so I hope you’re not upset I went ahead and helped myself! You sounded like you were having such a pleasant dream, I couldn't bear the thought of waking you.”

Husk shifts back against his stool looking at the demon, wary of his words waiting for the inevitable provocation that was sure to come; Alastor wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. But when no other words come Husk gives the other, who has gone back to his drink, a narrowed look before letting it drop, not willing to keep the line of dialogue open. What the Radio Demon does isn't really any of his business, he knows a bold faced lie when it’s said to his face.

He can’t remember the “dream” itself, it’s completely absent from his recollection like it never happened in the first place, but he remembers the feeling coming out of it. Even in death he would never associate that feeling of unfiltered terror and adrenaline with a happy dream. He doesn’t have dreams anymore, he only hopes there’s nothing but a dreamless sleep whenever he closes his eyes.

“Whatever”

The music floats around them gently, somber blues. He may not like Alastor too much but he cant fault the mans musical choices, they're too close to his own. Growing up in a casino had him used to listening to some of the most popular songs of decade, most of which was blues, jazz and swing. He knew this song though, it had more words and wasn't soft like this, it was loud and bombastic. He’s almost thankful Alastor isn’t playing that version, wincing at a particularly shrill trumpet note that aggravates his migraine.

Husk reaches for his bottle, still sitting right where he left it when he passed out, knocking it back, eyes closing, willing the alcohol to lighten pressure on his head even a little. A loud growl shakes him from his core as his stomach refuses to be ignored any longer than it already has been, but Husk has nothing to give the little shit at the moment so it will remain ignored until the pain in his head subsides that he can get to the kitchen and find something to eat without collateral damage. 

He hears a tut and movement, music getting noticeably louder, prompting him to squint open one eye and put the bottle down. The Radio demon has come to stand in front of him and, with a flourish of his hand, a plate appears on the counter with oddly shaped balls of something that looks deep fried.

“You sound like you could care to have some nourishment old friend, other than more drink. After all! Just because you have a spirit in each hand doesn’t make it a balanced diet!”

Husk squints at the demon and the food, squints at the laugh track he’s sure Alastor has on standby whenever he makes a shit joke, squints at the gesture of kindness that he’s sure has some kind of string attached. The red demon simply smiles back, pushing the plate closer to him. Husk would make a statement about not trusting the plate let alone the food he received from Alastor, but his thumb runs up and down the cheap booze bottle currently in his hand; His eyes flick down to the plate, decideing “Fuck it”

It’s mozzarella is his first thought when he pops one of them into his mouth, chewing slowly and savoring the taste. He looks back up to the demon across from him who seems exceptionally self satisfied as he walks back over to his seat and drink, humming quietly to the low brass that that plays in the air. 

He’s not gonna lie, it’s weird as shit. If you told him months ago he’d be sharing a quiet moment with the Radio Demon, He’d have wrote you off as crazy, maybe decked you for interrupting his drinking binge. But as he sits here munching on some fried cheese, booze in hand, serene music cascading from a demon with enough blood on his hands to flood the entire hotel, he feels calm. The feeling he had woke to is all but gone now, replaced with an apprehensive but still relaxed feeling.

Husk eyes Alastor, popping another ball into his mouth. He reaches up and touches his ear a second, eyes narrowing before the hand drops back down and he shakes is head, looking away. He doesn’t notice the way Alastor’s smile shifts slightly wider, even with his eyes closed, unable to see the motion.

**Author's Note:**

> Song: Basin Street Blues 1928  
Singer: Louis Armstrong
> 
> There's a second version with lyrics that was recorded in the 1950s around the projected time before Husk's death, much faster and less somber.


End file.
